


Incoherent Was Always a Better Look On You

by FrogFacey



Category: Mindless Self Indulgence
Genre: And Steve's a werewolf, Angst, Gen, It's artsy, Jimmy's a frankenstein's monster (also duh), Kitty's a vampire, Lyn-Z's a witch (duh), Monster AU!, Msi doesn't seam like the angst kind of type but I wanted to write something sad, This has more of a...Concept than a concrete plot, if that makes sense?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 04:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13022970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogFacey/pseuds/FrogFacey
Summary: “Isn't it strange?” Lindsey’s voice echoed around the van, bouncing off the metal and wrapping around Kitty until it didn’t feel like she was whispering anymore. To her it seemed like they were the only ones alive at this point, the highway sounded distant and quiet and the breathing of the others had faded away.“What do you mean?”“That I was born to control the very thing people used to kill us.”





	Incoherent Was Always a Better Look On You

**Author's Note:**

> It's 2:30 am and I have not proofread this

They lived in a van. 

All four of them (plus the occasional Chantal) existed together in a cramped, shitty van. They ate barely anything and slept very little and sometimes Kitty would come home covered in blood and Steve would lash out and sometimes Lindsey would black out and wake up singed and Jimmy would fall apart.

But they coexisted together, much in the same way they couldn’t with anyone else.

It was like Chantal had said once, no one wanted to hire someone covered with fur or someone else’s skin. They got by, selling the things they would always deny they found and make money by creating things they hated.

Their van smelled like dead rats and they slept in a pile on top of gross old pillows from Steve’s parents house and they lived in truck stops and the side of highways.

They were always moving, it was the only constant.

They lived in a van and although the idea was cool, it was far from anything out of an adventure book.

-

Jimmy found a little bit of solace in the phrase _fucked six ways to sunday_ because if he’d bother to count, he’d probably find it’d be more like eight.

If being buried had told him anything, it was that sometimes you just had to eat the worms life had handed to you because he knew what it was like to be eaten himself.

He would be so much more help if his brain wasn’t half eaten half mush, he’d know so much more, he’d say so much more. 

Fucked six ways to sunday, it wrapped up his situation pretty well. Sometimes if he looked hard enough, he could still find dirt in his clothes and sometimes, just sometimes, he wished Chantal had never dug him up.

It was like that paradox, if you get a boat and after time replace every part of it, is it still the same boat? Except replace the boat with skin grafts and unwilling organ donors.

Jimmy felt guilty almost, his entire existence was based off of broken laws and unwilling volunteers and a note left to a great granddaughter saying to behave and that she’d be allowed to dig up the backyard when she turned 21 because that’s where he’d left her present.

Fucked six ways to sunday, he guessed it was pretty accurate. He was stuck living again, though this time disintegrating slowly and stuck living with people who couldn’t sew and so, left him to unravel.

It was punk, Steve once said, back when they hated each other. It was fine because it looked cool he’d said, ignoring the smell, it was fine.

If he were still alive, Jimmy would march up to Chantal’s Great Grandfather’s home and demand to be repaired, demand that he be told why he existed, why he was left to rot without a coffin.

Then he’d probably slap him half to death and play cut and paste with his face and see how much he liked it.

Fucked six ways to sunday, it was a nice little way to sum up his existence.

He didn’t want to care, but sometimes he wanted to count his shortcomings, he’d probably find it was more like eight.

-

Kitty almost felt bad, Lindsey’s estranged vampire boyfriend had a pretty stellar job as a comic author and Kitty was left to run with a band of misfits. She could be helping, getting a job, making more than seven dollars a week.

She was still socially acceptable, Lindsey agreed when she spoke this to the quiet and empty feeling van.

“But that doesn’t mean we like you any less.” Lindsey had a way with words, taking things that weren’t meant to be sad and mushing them into compliments.

Kitty nodded and turned her head to the side, she could see one of Lindsey’s feet hanging out from her sleeping bag, if she concentrated hard enough she could see her wiggling her toes.

“You could work too.” She wasn’t really sure what she meant by it, but she let the words hang in the air for a little bit. She looked around the dark van, she could only just make out the dirty windows and through that, the lights from the highway.

“I can’t.” She said, pulling her legs up to her chest, “I’ll burn everything.”

“You can be careful?”  
Lindsey let out a little humph of disagreement and she let the conversation drop.

“Isn’t it strange?” Lindsey’s voice echoed around the van, bouncing off the metal and wrapping around Kitty until it didn’t feel like she was whispering anymore. To her it seemed like they were the only ones alive at this point, the highway sounded distant and quiet and the breathing of the others had faded away.

“What do you mean?” 

“That I was born to control the very thing people used to kill us.”

Her words left a very sour taste in Kitty’s mouth, one which she ignored in favour of gnawing a little at her wrist.

Lindsey noticed.

“C’mere.” She mumbled sitting up, “I won’t hurt you.”

-

Steve stumbled back into the van, falling on all fours as soon as he reached inside. He coughed, once, twice and fell onto his front, heaving heavily.

Another month passed, another month to go.

Steve hated anything with a set schedule, they stressed him out, the phases of the moon were no different. It was stressful, but so much less stressful than the hole in his leg.

He should have remembered that fucking hunters were around this area and they basically shot anything that moved.

Fucking _fuck_ he hurt.

It was just super stellar timing that Kitty or Lindsey weren’t here, they’d know what to do (Or more, Lindsey would use some magic and Kitty would probably just lick it and then the bleeding would stop).

He breathed out a shaky sigh and watched through blurring eyes as a pair of feet came to the rescue.

“Steve?” Jimmy asked, crouching down and looking at him with raised eyebrows, “Steve what happened?”

He tried to talk, he really did, but all that came out was _fuckfuckshitgodjesusdamnitfuckinghurtsJimmy_.

Jimmy’s face fell, “Hey, hey get up. You need to sit up.”

He looped his arms under Steves armpits and tried to lift him up, but was cut short by Steve’s pained yelp.

“Limp or fucking something, you can’t just bleed out on the floor.” His voice sounded funny, like Steve’s head had been plunged underwater.

He barely registered Jimmy’s nimble fingers working a bandage so tight around his thigh he began to lose feeling in his foot, everything was just too fuzzy.

“You have to hold on, don’t fucking pass out on me.”

That sounded like a great idea, if only his eyelids stopped drooping.

-

They lived in a van. 

They existed together in a cramped, shitty van. They spent barely anything and had little to call their own and sometimes Kitty would come home covered in blood and Steve would bite and snarl and sometimes Lindsey would black out and wake up with her belongings on fire and Jimmy’s stitching was coming loose.

But they existed and that fuck, sometimes that was just enough.


End file.
